


Levelheaded

by strifery



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, First Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 04:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14418081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strifery/pseuds/strifery
Summary: Lance's emotional state after a rough first year of college can be fixed with three things: his kickass job at his favorite childhood roller rink, his reigning high score on his favorite game at said rink, and his two best friends.Lance has to spend his summer fixing three things: the impending shutdown of the roller rink, the growing distance between him and his friends after a year apart, and the toppling of his prized high score thanks to some upstart newcomer calling themselves "Red".To make matters worse, an old rival from way back suddenly rolls back into his life, hotter and more infuriating than ever. To add insult to injury, he even actually seems to want to help Lance out this time around. Just who does he think he is?!And who does Lance think he is to sort of, kind of, not really accept it?!





	Levelheaded

Lance loves Tuesdays.

Correction: Lance loves every day of the week now, because Lance loves everything about being back home. But Tuesdays are his first love, and he wouldn't dare betray them. Tuesday is the slowest business day at the Crystal Palace roller rink (a fact he's proud to say he learned from the summer before sixth grade; he visited every day for almost three weeks) and thus the best time for him to roll up his sleeves, kick back with some nachos, and  _play._

The  _Voltron: Defenders of the Universe_ game has been in the arcade of the Crystal Palace roller rink since before he was born. Lance first notices it when he's five.

It's his eldest sister Ana's twelfth birthday party and he's never been to the rink before, but as he watches his brothers on one end of the rink shove each other around and his sister trip over herself and into a pair of high schoolers, he decides it's probably better if he stays away from the skating. His mother rents skates for them all, but his are half a size too big for him with laces he's not sure how to tie correctly. At least they have blue stars on them. He likes blue stars.

Lance is finishing Ana's nachos, scooping leftover orange cheese into piles with shards of soggy chips when a faint  _pew!_ gets his attention. He whips his head in the direction of the noise and learns the feeling behind a word he won't know until third grade: "enchanted".

There, tucked away in the corner of the rink is a big, flashing  _something_ with a word written in airbrushed rainbow letters across the top. Lance squints at the word and tries to remember what his mother has said about sounding out big words.  _Vol-tron._ The name makes his tongue flop around in his mouth. He smiles at the way it feels.

It takes a few yanks to get his skates off his feet without untying the careful knot Ana had tied for him, but once they're off Lance dashes towards the glowing corner. _Everything_ in the rink is glowing; his father mentioned something called a "black-light". Lance looks up at the lights -- they don't look black to him, but his white socks and a few of the shapes on the carpet have turned a weird shade of purple. Cool.

As he gets closer, Lance slows down and approaches the tall machine carefully, entranced by the flashing lights. There's no one else around; in fact, most of the arcade is deserted, the 8-bit wails and chimes of the various games drowned out by the sound of wheels on wood and thrumming synth pop. He peeks around the side of the dark boxy structure and gasps aloud. Painted robotic lions grace the side of the cabinet, each one speeding from a different direction towards a giant robot in the center wielding a massive silver sword. Lance extends a finger and gently pokes each lion as he counts.  _One, two, three, four, five. Yellow, red, black, green, blue._ He runs his hand over the image and quietly repeats the strange name:  _Voltron._

The weird box has a screen.

Lance has to get on his tiptoes to see it properly, but when he does, he's greeted with the same image of the five lions, made out of little square blocks like his Legos at home. There are also two red buttons and a stick with a red ball on top. He has to jump to see the words written above the buttons, "start" and "fire". He grins as he recognizes the terms; it's a game!

He excitedly slaps at the buttons a few times, but nothing happens. The screen doesn't do anything but continue to cycle through a few scenes of the colored lions shooting tiny lasers at a group of purple spaceships gathered under another weird name.  _Gal-ra,_ Lance sounds out carefully. They must be the bad guys. A message flashes across the screen:  _Insert coin to start._

Lance runs back to where his family is seated by the snack bar and begs for quarters, gathering as many as he can hold in his tiny palms before clutching them close to his chest and sprinting back to the game, jingling all the way like one of Santa's reindeer. This time, he's followed by his father, who laughs at the hurried way he crouches down and dumps his collected stash of coins onto the patterned rug. He's shown how to push a quarter into a little red slot near the bottom of the box, and finally the screen changes.

As his father hoists him up by his waist, Lance can see that the five lions are gone, replaced by a single blue lion at the bottom of the screen. A line of purple ships stretches across the top half of the screen, and with a press of the red "fire" button, one disappears as the game chimes with a laser sound.  _Pew!_ Lance giggles and hits the button again.  _Pew! Pew!_

He doesn't end up skating that night, instead plowing through rows of blocky ships (his mother calls them "pixels" when she arrives for her turn to hold him up) and shooting lasers with his blue lion. He doesn't win very much; the pile of quarters on the floor slowly diminishes as the night goes on. He takes breaks for cake and presents and a few clumsy pair skates with his sister, but he always returns to the game. It doesn't give tickets like some of the other games in the arcade, meaning that there's nothing on the shiny wall of toys by the door that he can take home with him, but he doesn't really care.

He likes this place. He likes the sound of the skates on the floor and the funny stomp-walk they make everybody do as they navigate the carpeted floor. He likes the nachos that aren't like his mother's but still good and the way white becomes purple in the dark. He likes the blue tongue Ana gets from her slushy and the music that makes his parents smile and dance in a way that makes him laugh and all his older siblings cringe.

But most of all, he likes the game. He wants to come back for the game.

\---

He does.

His habit begins three weeks after the party, when it's his turn to pick the weekend activity and he immediately asks to go skating, his eyes shining like stars over the ocean. Of course, his family knows him all too well and immediately catches on, and his mother doesn't want to pay to rent skates just for him to spend all day off the rink, so they strike up a deal: if Lance skates for an hour, he can play for an hour. It ends up being the first of many deals he makes.

When he's eight, the deal is that if he finishes all his chores on time, he can be dropped off with Ana and busy himself at the arcade while she works her Saturday shifts behind the rental counter. Each chore only gets him four quarters, though, so he learns to make them last by getting better. By the time he's turning nine and the deal to turn his 'C' in social studies into a 'B' has been met, he's not half bad. During his birthday party (earned by the terms of the deal, of course), he manages to impress himself by making it all the way to the next section, earning the Yellow Lion for the first time. He still prefers Blue, though; he likes the ice beam she unlocks at level ten.

"Whoa..." Lance blinks and rubs his eyes until the bright imprints of pixelated ships swim out of his field of vision. He has to stop getting so close to the screen before his mother catches him and lectures him about it for the millionth time. He turns to face the owner of the soft voice and is surprised to find his classroom's newest student standing behind him, his face turned more to the floor than to Lance despite being a few inches taller than him.

"S-sorry!" he stammers, taking a nervous step back. "I didn't mean to distract you!" He points at the  _Voltron_ cabinet, where without Lance's control, the Yellow Lion has careened to one side of the screen and is being ambushed by enemy fire. Lance shrugs.

"I've still got a few quarters left, I can get to that level again." He decides not to tell the new kid that that was his first time getting that far; he looks apologetic enough as it is. Lance tries to recall his name, but can only put together a jumble of unfamiliar sounds. "You've got a long name, right?"

He hopes it's not a rude question, and the other boy doesn't seem to think so as he sheepishly blows at the dark bangs falling into his face, revealing a warm pair of brown eyes.

"Yeah, Tsuyoshi." He says it quietly and pauses, like he's waiting for Lance to burst into giggles. He doesn't. "You can call me 'Hunk' if you want." Lance smiles.

"I like 'Hunk', it makes you sound all strong and stuff! Thanks for coming to my party!" Hunk finally meets his toothy grin with one of his own.

"Thanks for inviting me!" The smile drops as quickly as it appeared. "I mean, I know you invited the whole class so you kinda  _had_ to, but you didn't  _really_ have to, I just-"

Lance cuts him off, pointing at something neon clutched in Hunk's hand. "What are those?"

He looks down, as if remembering he was holding something. "Oh! I, uh, I got these from the candy machine by the door when I came in and I thought, y'know, since it's your birthday and all..." He motions for Lance to extend his hand, and when he does he drops a neon blue tube into his open palm. Lance rolls the strange object over in his hand.

"You got me a..." He stares at the label. "'Push Pop'?" He remembers enough from commercials to recognize it as candy, but he never knew they sold them at the Crystal Palace. To be fair, though, he usually makes a beeline for the arcade anyway, so he probably wouldn't notice if they hung a shark from the ceiling. Actually, scratch that, he probably would notice a shark, sharks are cool.

"Y-yeah! I got you a real birthday gift and all, I just really like these and thought you might want one. I-if you don't want it, I'll take it back, it won't hurt my feelings." Lance shakes his head and begins to fiddle with the cap on his candy.

"No way, I've never had one of these before! These are like those suckers you push up to keep eating, right?" Hunk gives him a smile again, and Lance is glad to see it return to the other boy's chubby face.  _He's got the type of face Mom would wanna pinch,_ Lance thinks absentmindedly. His cheek aches with the phantom pain of motherly love and he makes a mental note not to let Hunk meet his family without warning him first.

Lance learns three things that day -- one: Push Pops turn your mouth blue, two: he  _loves_ that Push Pops turn your mouth blue, and three: Hunk may suck at  _Voltron_ , but he _dominates_ at skee ball. The two boys spend the afternoon challenging each other to different games around the arcade, racking up tickets like nobody's business. They wrestle themselves into skates and hit the rink a few times, Lance dancing to the songs he knows and stopping only to trade his tickets for a thin orange headband after Hunk hits the wall for the seventh time.

When a rink attendant rolls out with a plastic limbo set and the music changes from Gwen Stefani to some generic-sounding reggae track, he makes everyone laugh and cheer by doing a powerslide under the bar (he also skins the crap out of his knees, but no one but Hunk gets to know that because no one but Hunk helps him pour cold water on his knees in the bathroom).

When his father brings out the cake, his face lit with a grin and the soft light of the candles, Lance wishes for a best friend and a new bike and lets the smoke carry his hopes away. Five minutes later, when he and Hunk are laughing and flinging blue frosting into each other's hair, he realizes that he really only needed to ask for the bike.

\---

Lance pulls at the door of the rink, groaning and giving it a few more impatient pulls when it doesn't open, the lock clicking with each one. Cupping his hands over his eyes, he peers through the tall glass windows and into the lobby. Sunlight flows into the room in thick, honey-colored rays, but other than that, it's completely dark. Lance frowns.  _Shouldn't at least Coran or Allura be inside by now?_

He gives the glass a tentative knock and waits a moment, watching for any sign of movement. Nothing. He sighs and drums his fingers against the bottom of the warm tray of drinks in his hand. What's the point of getting up early to surprise everyone with coffee and donuts if no one shows up?

Lance turns away from the window and takes a seat on the curb, carefully setting the drink tray on the sidewalk next to him. He looks out to the parking lot in front of him, where the slightly dented hood of his own car glints with the sheen of a fresh coat of rich blue paint.

He smiles; the paint job was a welcome home surprise from his father, and a much appreciated one, as the car's original rusty grey had never done him any favors. The box of donuts he's brought is balanced on the roof, hopefully being kept warm by the morning sun. He doesn't worry about it up there, even as a breeze sweeps through the parking lot and rustles the leaves of the surrounding trees. There were worse things in life than spilled donuts. Lance tilts his face into the breeze and takes a deep breath of hometown air.

As far as mornings go, this is one of the quieter ones he's had over the past year. While he was away at school, he usually woke up to the 7am drawer-slamming of his roommate as he got ready for his own classes, which usually led to some form of argument between the two (though thankfully, that eventually stopped around mid-September when he and Lance stopped talking altogether –– the arguing, not the drawer thing). Even going home for winter break offered little peace, since his house had been filled with the waking screams of visiting infant nieces and nephews.

It's not that Lance prefers waking up to complete silence or anything; it's just been hard for him to be so far away from the morning soundtrack he's welcomed for pretty much his whole life. His mother's old mixtapes carrying their quiet, soulful Spanish up the stairs while she worked wonders with milk and coffee. The barking of the Holt family dog next door. The chirps of the bluebirds nesting in the orange tree in his yard, the rushing of the shower as Ana used up all the hot water, the telltale  _thump_ of his father dropping his boots by the door as he came in from gathering eggs from the family chickens -- he could go on forever. No matter how many he named, the absence of them all left him aching in an empty way he thought people only wrote about when they were trying too hard to be deep.

Yeah, he's really glad to be home.

"Lance,  _Jesus,_ I know you're on vacation and all, but do you really have to be here before we even open?" Lance's head snaps down at the familiar voice, ignoring it's owner's sour tone to give her a big smile. Pidge has her head stuck out of the Hunk's passenger window as he pulls into the empty lot, weaving into the spot next to Lance. He still finds himself amazed by his best friend's ability to whip his massive truck around as if it weren't any bigger than a Beetle.

"Is that any way to talk to someone who brought you breakfast?"

She raises an eyebrow, to which Lance responds by pointing from the drink tray to the box of donuts on his roof. Pidge's frown instantly dissolves.

"Oh my god, please tell me those are-"

"Peanut Butter Beezers?" Lance finishes for her, getting up from the ground and stretching his arms above his head. "Naturally. There's also a few Burning Loves because your driver here would kill me if I left those out."

"Hey," Hunk begins defensively, "It's not every day a man gets a donut dedicated to him, and I intend to take advantage of that dream come true for as long as it applies to me."

Lance grins as his best friend steps out (er, more like  _down,_ since Hunk's steering wheel hovers about a head above Lance's line of sight) of his truck and immediately wraps him up in a hug. Lance coughs out a laugh as Hunk's muscled arms constrict around him. He hears something in his back let out a popping noise, but he knows better than to let a little pain interrupt a reunion and wiggles until one of his arms is free enough to throw around Hunk's shoulder.

"It's good to see you too, buddy," he says, giving Hunk's back a few clumsy pats. The taller of the two laughs and lets him go, lowering him to the ground he hadn't realized he'd left.

Lance barely has time to regain his balance before a door slams on the other side of the truck and a blur wearing a green polo launches into his arms. Pidge laughs as he stumbles, barely catching her as she nearly knocks them both into the side of his car. He frowns and pulls back slightly, shifting one arm as he picks a few amber hairs out of his mouth.

"Jesus, you still shed as much as ever," he says with a scowl he doesn't mean. If she notices his grimace, she ignores it.

"Whatever, man, now gimme a boost so I can get to those Beezers."

Lance rolls his eyes but lets his fake frown fall, smiling at the whoop Pidge lets out when the donuts are finally within her reach. She gleefully tears into the waiting bag of donut holes and shoves the now half-opened buttercup yellow pastry box into Hunk's waiting arms, hopping down from Lance's hold with practiced ease.

"Glad to have you back, Lance," she says through a mouthful of peanut butter glaze.

"Yeah, yeah, you're just saying that 'cause you missed my money."

"I don't deny it." Pidge hooks an arm around his elbow anyway and pulls him into a quick side hug, her laugh carrying through the lot as he tousles her hair. She fishes the building keys out of her pocket and tosses them to him as Hunk scoops up the tray of coffee, the two employees snickering at the way Lance scrambles to catch them and bolts for the door.

"You know which key it is-"

"YUP." Lance finds the right key in seconds and throws open the doors, standing in the entryway and taking a deep breath of roller rink air. It's just as stale as he remembers. He loves it.

"Can you turn on the lights?" Hunk calls from behind him, holding open the door for Pidge before she can speckle the spotless glass with peanut butter handprints. "Do you know where the switch-"

His question is answered by the stuttered hum of the ancient fluorescents flicking on, and he looks to see Lance standing at the back of the room, already at work flipping on every light in the rink.

"Anything else you wanna ask me that I already know?" he teases as he leans against the wall, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. Hunk's own smile is smug as he sets their breakfast down and gets to work plugging in the various machines of the snack bar.

"Are you here this early for your game or to beg for your job back?" Lance is no longer smiling, but Pidge is grinning from ear to ear, hissing out a scandalized  _"oooooooooh"_.

"First of all," Lance begins, mentally scrambling to gather his pride. "I don't have to  _beg_ for anything, I was a great employee! It's not like I was fired." Hunk shrugs as he grabs a few cans of cheese from under the counter.

"You weren't, but Allura wasn't exactly happy about you bailing on her the day before you left, man." Hunk's gaze falls. "None of us were, really." The flash of guilt that races through Lance's chest is cold and terrifying, but he takes a breath and wills it away best he can.

"Yeah, yeah," he answers, waving his hand dismissively and leaving the wall. He rocks on the balls of his feet to build momentum, and before anyone can stop him he vaults himself over the counter, sliding a bit on the slick surface before landing in the tiny linoleum-lined alley they called a kitchen. "You spent all of winter break mad at me, remember?"

"And by 'all of winter break' you mean that he spent a day and a half sending you one-word texts before breaking down and calling you, right?" Pidge chimes in, wiping at her glaze-sticky hands with a massive wad of napkins. Lance holds a hand to his heart and sniffs dramatically, wiping away an imaginary tear.

"When you love someone, it feels like longer." Hunk snorts and begins peeling the lid off a can in his arms, the smell of warming tortilla chips wafting through the air.

"Besides, you're no better, Pidgeon -- you were the one breaking into my backyard like a maniac."

"Listen." She points the corner of a napkin at him accusingly. " _Listen._ I heard suitcase wheels meet sidewalk, that's basically an open door."

"You didn’t even use the door! You jumped the fence!"

"And when I knocked on your back door, your mother answered! Therefore, in the eyes of the law, I was invited in."

"What kind of twisted vampire law do you live by?!"

Hunk lets out a little sigh as his best friend's voice climbs to a shriek, Pidge's nonchalant teasing dragging Lance into the same style of back-and-forth they'd been perfecting since the sixth grade. He lets their voices fade into the general din of the morning as his eyes sweep over the relatively spotless snack bar -- there really isn't much for him to do quite yet. It's still early enough for the rink to be guaranteed at least another hour of peace before the first wave of customers roll in.

"Hey, either of you two wanna kill some time in the arcade before Coran and Allura get here?" Lance's eyes sparkle at the idea of getting in a few rounds before he has to grovel for employment, but he still gives him a faux-suspicious smile.

"Very clever, Hunk, but I saw you messing around with those cans earlier. Are you trying to distract me out of a proper order of welcome-home nachos?" Pidge rolls her eyes.

"The cheese has to warm up first, genius. We just got here."

"She's right," Hunk confirms with a nod. "I can't sleep with a clear conscience knowing I gave my best buddy room temperature rink munchies."

Lance puts his hands to his heart and looks to Hunk with shining eyes. "You're too good to me, truly."

Hunk gives him a dramatic salute as the trio cross into the dim neon of the arcade, laughing when Lance pulls a bag heavy with quarters from his jacket. He pays them no mind –– they can rib him all they want, but he didn't spend five months squirreling away quarters in a corner of his dorm for nothing. It's the first Tuesday of his summer, and he plans to make it count one quarter at a time. Actually, speaking of Tuesdays…

"Aren't you supposed to be in school?" Lance asks, turning to Pidge as she feeds a a pair of quarters to an ancient-looking basketball game. She grabs a ball and shrugs as the machine rings with the screams of a fake adoring crowd.

"All my AP tests are over with, I've already brought home three state titles for the robotics team, and I've had my acceptance letter from GU for like a month now. I don't really  _need_ to be in anyone's classroom anymore. It's not like there's anything super crucial they're gonna teach me in the last three weeks of the year." She makes a shot and grins confidently as it sails through the frayed strings of the net with a satisfying  _swish!_ "Besides, I'd much rather be getting paid to hang with you two goobers."

"Don't you still have to go to grad rehearsals?" Hunk asks, and Lance nods beside him as he remembers his own senior year.

"Yeah, I know it's an honor to be in our presence and all, but you really shouldn't screw yourself over in the final stretch. Not after you've worked so hard to be valedictorian."

Pidge's movements stutter and her next shot misses, her ball bouncing off the rim with a violent rattle that makes both of the boys jump.

"I'll be fine," she insists a little too quickly as the noise dies out, scooping up another ball and letting it fly before the last one can even finish rolling back to her.  _Swish._ She makes two more tosses before speaking again.  _Swish, swish._ "It's nice of you to look out for me and all, but the only thing you should be worrying about right now is how many Beezers you're about to owe me after I kick your asses with my mad b-ball skills."

Any tension in the air dissolves as Hunk and Lance scramble to activate their own games, throwing playful accusations of treachery their friend's way as she snickers and continues to rack up points.

There's a barely-there hollow of anxiety that prods at the back of Lance's mind, growing stronger as he wonders if he's just crossed a line formed in his absence. Pidge has never been one to hide when something is bothering her, and everything seems fine now as she grins at the long line of tickets the game is spitting out at her feet, but still…

_You should've known not to ask about school if she'd clearly rather be here than there._   _Maybe you're just not as in touch with everyone as you used to be._

The thought lashes through his mind like a whip of ice, chasing away the warmth of the moment as quickly as a smothered flame. No, no, this is a bad train of thought, and he can't afford to let it ruin his precious Tuesday morning. Lance  _needs_ these days at the rink -- they're as essential to being home as his mother and father.

He shakes his head once, then twice until the thought disappears. He picks up a ball and chucks it at the rickety hoop, not as much for the points but to let the motion of it all bring him back to earth. Pidge clucks her tongue as his ball ricochets off the rim and just barely avoids hitting him in the face.

"Lance, I love beating you as much as the next guy-" She cuts herself off to glance at Hunk. "-- who...actually isn't all that competitive so, correction,  _more_ than the next guy -- but don't you think you should spend your money on a game you'll actually win?" Lance raises an eyebrow.

"First of all, I don't know what you're talking about, because I rule at this game." He can feel his typical confidence returning as he takes another shot, this one circling the rim before bouncing off and crashing against the gate of the cabinet. "...I'm a little out of practice, but either way, I'm  _here._ Playing with  _you._ Enduring every one of your hurtful comments."

"You suck at this game."

"Like that one. But the entire time, from the corner of my eye, I see my true love calling to me. Do you know how painful it is for me to ignore the sweet siren song of the beautiful game?"

"Isn't soccer supposed to be the 'beautiful game'?" Hunk chimes in from where he kneels, a short line of tickets dispensing into his waiting hand. Lance tosses his hair and places a hand on his hip.

"Any game is beautiful when I'm the one playing, obviously." His best friend nods sagely.

"You're right, I've been a fool."

Pidge snickers. "You're both fools. Anyway, I hate to break it to you, bud, but you and your 'true love' might need some time to reconnect. You've been dethroned."

Lance hardly reacts and attempts a few more baskets. He makes one of them and grins triumphantly as the buzzer sounds the end of his round.

"Dethroned?" he repeats. "What are you talking about? You mean my high score?"

Pidge hums in confirmation and shoves her tickets in her pockets, her mind already on a game of skee ball. Lance scoffs, disbelieving.

"Please, you're gonna have to try harder than that if you want to scare me. Hardly anyone pays attention to  _Voltron_ anymore, they just come by the arcade to win tickets and get their fingers bashed in at the air hockey table." A hand claps down onto his shoulder, heavy and supportive, and he looks up to find Hunk looking at him with...is that sympathy?

"I'm just gonna duck into the kitchen for a sec and get those nachos. I think you're gonna need them."

"Huuuuunk!" Lance calls out to his retreating back. "What does that meaaaaan?!" He fixes his gaze on Pidge. "This is another one of you guys' pranks, isn't it? I was just here a few months ago, and the newest score was yours. Which I beat. Are you saying that you're the one breaking all my hard-earned records?"

Pidge barks out a laugh as she chucks a ball baseball-style at the 5,000-point hole. It misses with a bang that makes Lance worry for a split second that she's dented the old machine.

"Of course not, you know I've been stuck at the Green Lion since my freshman year."

"True. Did Matt ever post that player's guide we were putting together last summer?" Pidge shakes her head.

"Nah, he said he'd hold out until you got to the Black Lion so it could be properly color-coded."

Lance sighs fondly. "Ah, classic Matt."

Hunk rounds the corner coming from the snack bar then, a few piping hot paper trays of nachos balanced in his arms. Lance immediately brightens as the one piled high with jalapeños is handed off to him.

"What, no shitty chili?" The question is mostly a joke, but Pidge gives her tray a genuine frown.

"Yeah, what gives, Hunk?"

"It's too early for shitty chili," Hunk explains, taking a seat on the edge of an empty skee ball ramp. "I'm not making an entire pot of the stuff just to have it go cold by the time people actually order it."

"But it does that anyway!" Pidge whines. She begrudgingly shoves a chip dripping with too-orange cheese into her mouth and pitches another ball at her game. This one bounces off the 2,000-point hole and rolls into the gutter, her score ticking up by a mere 100 points. She scowls. "Damn it."

Lance snickers as he cherry-picks jalapeños from his plate, popping them into his mouth one by one like popcorn. The burn is sweet on his tongue and tastes of memories of childhood dares to see who could eat the most peppers before breaking a sweat. The thought brings a smile to his face as he picks up a chip.  _Good times._

"So," Hunk says through a mouthful of nachos, "Did you finish telling him about Red?"

All of the warm fuzzies he's built up drain out of Lance's body as he remembers the news, their place quickly taken by hot bubbles of defensive anger.

"Who the hell is Red?!"

His friends share a look, and the way their expressions turn cryptic is maddeningly familiar. It's the look they share when they've seen the tryout results before he has, or when the cheese dispenser is on the fritz. They know something he doesn't. Something he isn't going to like.

"Maybe it's best if you find out yourself." Hunk tilts his head towards the  _Voltron_ cabinet waiting in the corner, it's screen glowing with warm welcome as it has for years. Lance's heart sinks. He approaches the game carefully, as if it were a wounded animal, before gently placing a comforting palm against the screen.

"It's not your fault, beautiful," he coos to the pixelated Blue Lion as she triumphantly freezes an oncoming wave of Galra ships. "We'll right this wrong together, I promise. It'll all be better soon."

Static licks at his fingertips as he removes his palm and ignores Pidge's comment from behind him about finding him a therapist. He stretches his arms high above his head and feels a few satisfying pops ripple through his fingers, his eyes never leaving the buttons laid out before him like a pilot's dashboard. Or a chessboard. Or the keys of a baby grand. Any simile works for Lance, really, as long as the mental connection between him and his precious game gets across.

He takes a deep breath.

He rolls his shoulders: right, then left, then right again, as is his routine.

He pulls two quarters from his bag and gingerly presses his lips to each coin in reverence (and then promptly spits out the bits of lint clinging to his lips from doing so).

He's slipping the coins into the slot one by one when he hears Pidge comment, "So is he gonna stick his dick in it or what?"

Lance considers tuning her out as much of an essential part of his routine as anything else. As Hunk shushes her lilting cackles behind him, he decides it's now or never and hits  _START._

He doesn't expect his first run of the day to be great. Hell, if he's really as out of touch with his friends as he fears, it'd be no surprise for him to tank his first play in months. It doesn't bother him –– it's all a part of getting into the Zone™. Sure enough, the rest of the world falls away as easily as ever and he's quickly lost in a world of pixels. He registers Hunk trying to offer him the last of his nachos, and when he drops his jaw his best friend loyally pushes the chips into his mouth. Then Hunk fades into the background of the rink, and Pidge soon follows, humming a song that comes bumping through the speakers a moment later.

"Hey, man," Hunk says as he reappears around the corner, "Need some focus food?" He holds up two Push Pop candies with a smile, a blue one for Lance and a red for himself.

Lance grins back but shakes his head. "Nah, Push Pops are a third run kind of food. I'm not expecting this one to go long."

Hunk nods and pockets the candy, content to watch the other boy play for a moment before disappearing to help Pidge wipe down the countertops. Lance isn't doing as badly as he expected to; at 50,000 points, he's already halfway through the first phase of the Blue Lion and well on his way to unlocking her ice-themed special stage.  _Not bad at all, Lancey Lance,_ he thinks, smiling to himself. The smile quickly folds into a competitive smirk as he remembers his new challenger.  _I bet Red doesn't get here nearly as fast as I do._

With a twist of the joystick, Blue decimates a row of Galra soldiers and Lance whispers out a cheer.  _I don't know what those guys were talking about, I've got years of experience over this guy. In fact..._

A quick steer to one side sends the Blue Lion careening into the side of the screen, and he lifts his fingers from the buttons and watches as her sprite is bombarded with enemy lasers. He hates to let it happen, but his pride sweeps any lingering guilt aside.

"Let's see what this Red character thinks they're working with," he says aloud, Blue's lives ticking away until he hears the begrudgingly familiar jingle of defeat. He'll never say that getting to the top was easy.

The top ten scores fly into view one by one as the screen changes to a purple-hued sky glittering with pixel stars. The lowest one is YLW, with a score that barely passes the game's second stage. Lance smiles -- Hunk never has been one to play for points. A few spaces are taken up by rink patrons, some with names he recognizes. He lets out a low, impressed whistle at seeing NMA bump MTH from his long-standing spot in fifth place. He knew Nyma had taken an interest in the game from the few times she joined him in the arcade over winter break, the two of them hunched over the cabinet in two-player mode as Hunk and Rolo rattled off possible holiday donut flavors to each other.

"Okay, but how about this," his one-time upperclassman had begun one suggestion, half of a pen cap dangling between his teeth. "Beezers, but filled with vanilla cream and topped with like, chestnuts or something. They talk about chestnuts in that one song, that makes them a Christmas nut, right? Ooh, wait, that's a good name for these, I'm writing that down." 

Hunk shook his head and tossed a rolled up napkin at the older man's head. "Unless you're planning to sell exclusively to thirteen year olds for the rest of your career, you are not filling a soft ball with white cream and calling it a 'Christmas nut'." 

The memory alone is enough to make Lance laugh again, and he thinks of the way he'd almost steered Nyma straight into a tractor beam as he keeled over, cackling loud enough to be heard over Pidge's sixth loop of "Last Christmas". Nyma stared down at him then, her grin small and teasing. 

"Lance, if you don't get back here, I'm getting to the Green Lion without you."

_And so it seems she did,_ Lance thinks, his eyes on her score. He'll have to remember to needle her about that tomorrow morning; this morning was all hugs and excited "so good to see you"s, and for now he's happy to leave it at that. 

He ignores the part of him that tries to tack an echoing  _"without you"_ to the end of his last thought and keeps reading up the line of scorers. 

He sees his own handle fly into view, the moniker as familiar as a second name: "BLU", in pixelated letters just big enough for a five year old to read (if he stood on his tiptoes, of course). It's a solid handle, and one Lance found himself using often throughout the years across various social media platforms. What could he say? It's his favorite color and his favorite Lion. Could he ask for anything better? 

He knows his latest record-breaking score by heart: 696,969. 

_Nice,_ he thinks reflexively. He grins as he remembers the (totally not illegal, if anyone asks) rink sleepover he and his friends arranged for him to get it on his last day of winter break. By the time he broke the current record, the rink was flooded with morning light and Hunk and Pidge were ambling through their daily preparations. He actually nearly missed his flight back to campus trying to stick around to celebrate, Pidge sprinting out of the DJ booth to deliver the sickest high-five she could muster before shoving him towards the doors and chattering about tarmac traffic. 

But in all seriousness, to nearly get to the 700,000 mark is no joke - that's a fourth of the way through the Red Lion, the second-hardest stage of the game next to the fabled Black Lion. Lance is pretty sure that when most people say an element of a video game is "fabled", they just mean that it's generically rare or doesn't show up in the base game proper and requires farming or hacking from the player themselves. Oh no. Such is not the case with  _Legendary Defender,_ and he's got the extensive Google search history (plus one essay from the seventh grade) to prove it. 

Nobody has ever reached the Black Lion. And Lance wants to be the first.

So when a pixelated wreath of silver laurels pops up around his handle, the tell-tale honor of second place, his heart drops into his stomach. His score was already pretty formidable by, well,  _anyone's_ standards. The community of dedicated  _Voltron_ players is pretty small as it is -- as far as he knows, it mostly consists of himself, Matt, and a handful of strangers from a Japanese forum he pokes through from time to time. He's pretty sure that if there were ever a proper league in order, he'd be one of the top players in the country, if not the world.  

So anyone that beats him has to be skilled to a degree that Lance doesn't really want to call "terrifying", per se, but it's definitely intimidating. 

He leans forward, close enough for the static of the screen to tickle the tip of his nose. He wrinkles it, chasing the sensation away as the final score flies into view, accompanied by a burst of golden stars and laurels. Lance reads the score first.

701,512.

Oh.

Thank. 

_GOD._

Pidge startles as a high-pitched shriek echoes through the empty rink, and she fumbles with the vinyl record in her hands as she tries to keep it from slipping from her grip. A quick peek out of the audio booth windows alerts her immediately to the noise's source and she frowns. 

"Hunk!" she yells, sliding open the window until it slams against the wall. "Get Lance off his knees before he starts praying to the cabinet again!" Hunk sighs, not unkindly, and vaults himself over the snack bar, poking his head around the corner to peer into the arcade. 

"Lance, buddy, we talked about this. No more praying to the lion goddess, she isn't real. She's just a dream you had about Allura when you got your wisdom teeth pulled out." He raises an eyebrow at the manic grin spreading across his best friend's features. "Dude, you okay? You look more cracked than one of my crinkle cookies." 

Pidge swings around the corner, holding onto the wall with one hand. 

"We makin' crinkle cookies?!" Her eyes drift down to Lance's crumpled form. "Oh. It's just you." Lance ignores her and gives the game a few loving pats. 

"The battle's not over yet, boys!" He stands abruptly, just avoiding banging his head against the cabinet as he does. He turns his attention back to the screen and rubs his hands together excitedly.

The name next to the offending (but, admittedly, not nearly as bad as it could be) score is wreathed in golden first place laurels, laurels that should be his _._ Laurels that  _have been_ his for several months running and are the product of years of careful focus and skill. Their very presence around a handle foreign to the arcade before now insults him. 

_RED._

Lance glowers down at the usurper's handle, blue eyes stormy with righteous fury. Ugh! How dare they have the audacity not only to attempt to dethrone him from what's rightfully his, but to succeed, and do so with a name that so clearly mocks his well-earned moniker?!

"You know," Lance muses, steepling his fingers like a cartoon villain. "In olden times, when some upstart tried to challenge the throne, they faced trial by guillotine." 

Pidge gives him a flat look. "The guillotine was only pulled out as a result of a trial, and even then only when the party was proven guilty by the court." She pauses. "Unless, of course, you're planning to go off-book with this a la the French Revolution." 

"France had the one where they were cutting off heads left and right, right?" 

"Yup."

"In that case..." Lance trails off and fishes through his bag of quarters. He has two between his fingers in seconds, blowing on them gently before giving them his trademark kiss for luck. " _Vive la France!"_

"Wow," Hunk laughs, as Lance boots up a new game. "You got that accent all kinds of wrong." 

"Shut up, man, you still can't roll your 'r's." Hunk give him a light shove.

"Your mom says I'm getting better." 

"She only tells you that 'cause she likes when you help her with the chickens." 

Pidge snickers. "If you two weren't so sincere those would be perfect sex jokes."

The tip of Lance's tongue pushes past his lips as he regains his focus, maneuvering the Blue Lion like it's second nature to him. Hunk and Pidge trade a few more quips that go over his head before eventually moving on to finish prepping for the work day ahead or attend to menial tasks around the rink. After what he's guessing is a half hour, the bell above the door chimes, a cheerful greeting carrying through the rink with it.

"Now," the newest voice begins, and a smile quirks at the corners of Lance's mouth when he hears the familiar lilt of a New Zealand accent. "I like to think I'm fairly observant, and I'm sure we wouldn't hear the end of it if our resident new driver got a car-" He hears Pidge grumble something about having to dip into her savings for her mother's birthday present, and he can hear the smile in the accented voice as it reassures her. 

"But that blue beaut in the parking lot has to belong to somebody, doesn't it? We have rules and such about parking here overnight, you know. I really hope we don't have to call the tow truck, it'd be such a shame to scratch up what's obviously a fresh coat of a certain someone's favorite color." The voice is closer now, and Lance glances away from the screen to see how close his former manager is. The ginger man leans against the snack bar, feigning nonchalance as he speaks to Hunk. 

"Do you happen to remember who that was, Hunk? I could've sworn we had a blue sort of guy running around here at one point. A tall fellow, maybe? Used to like nachos?" Hunk shakes his head. 

"I don't know about tall, but I do remember some gangly dude who used to slack off and eat all the Push Pops." 

"Hey!" Lance angles his head around the cabinet as best as he can to be seen by his friends. "I grew out of 'gangly'! I'm  _lean_ now, and there's a fair share of muscle under here!" He takes his hand off the joystick and tries to flex, but he doesn't hold it more than a second before frantically returning his hand to the controls. "I'm- I'm a little busy at the moment but take my word for it!" 

Coran laughs and makes his way into the arcade, patting Lance on the back. "It's good to see you back here, Lance!"

"Psh, when am I not here?" The older man shrugs. 

"Fair point, but good regardless." They both watch the screen for a moment as Lance fires lasers at a Galra druid. "So, I take it you've found out about K-"

" _Red,_ " Lance finishes, his voice dripping with disdain. "Ugh, yeah. I'm showing him who's boss right now." 

Lance misses the confusion that flickers across his manager's face, too focused to risk looking away just yet. Coran peeks over his shoulder to look at the score.

"Isn't that still level one?" 

"Of five! It's a process, Coran!" The manager holds up his hands defensively. 

"Alright, alright, I'll leave you to it. Just know that if you find yourself needing a break, we could use some help at the prize counter if you're up to it." Lance blinks, surprised. 

"Really?! I can come back just like that?!" He was sure that the rink would have replaced him by now and that he'd have to beg for some sort of position to be made up for him to justify a paycheck. To his relief, Coran nods. 

"Sure! We did hire a bit of extra help while you've been away, but he works mostly with skate rentals." Coran leans in with his hand to one side of his mustache, as if he were about to tell Lance a secret. "And between you and me, he's not as comfortable with kids as you are." Pride puffs through Lance's chest. He should've known better than to doubt the Crystal Palace -- no new hire could top his loyalty and love for the old rink. 

"I'm in! Coran, thank you, thank you so much!" He flits away from the controls just long enough to pull his manager in for a quick hug, his fingers quickly returning to the buttons as the embrace ends. "When should I start?" 

"Well, it's still early on a weekday, so I doubt we'll be needing any extra hands right away. Hunk and Pidge have opened up just fine, and there's no one here to cause any disasters to be cleaned up just yet. Why don't you keep an eye on the arcade from here and head behind the counter if you see anyone looking to rack up tickets, hm?" 

Lance can't count the amount of times he's thanked every lucky star he has for his manager. 

"Of course! You're the best, Coran!" The older man chuckles and waves him off as he strides out of the arcade, calling out to Pidge to put some music on while he turns on the cosmic lights. She obliges, and to the building intro of a upbeat song heavy with 80s synth, the rink comes alive with light and color. Coran lets out a whoop at the song choice, and Lance laughs -- Pidge has playlists of each employee's favorite type of music, but they all know she loves to put them on shuffle and watch their excitement when one of their favorites comes on. Lance can almost feel the rink thrum with energy as the instrumentals bounce off the carpeted walls. A moment later, David Bowie's voice comes blasting through the speakers.  _Let's dance!_

Lance can barely fathom how much he missed this place. 

\---

Hours pass and the rink doesn't see much activity outside of some teenagers playing hooky and a pair of tourists looking to buy a couple of water bottles. It's fine by Lance; he's perfectly undisturbed as he plays on, the blue Push Pop in his mouth slowly sharpening into a candy spear. After a few botched battles and rookie mistakes, he's managed to settle into his current round enough to make it to the Red Lion. If he's being honest with himself, he can't believe he got here so easily; just getting to this point alone a few months ago had taken him all night. 

_Not to say that this isn't time consuming,_  he reminds himself, the first streaks of orange spilling into the rink as the sun dips behind the trees. It's fine, he told his parents he'd be gone all day before he left. Well, in a way. He told them he was going to work. Which is where he is. So. 

He shakes away his thoughts and focuses on getting Red's rapid sprite safely through an enemy minefield. He grimaces as she takes a hit and takes care to veer into a healing power-up. He likes Red a lot: not only is she sturdy, with one of the largest HP bars of all the Lions, but just being able to play to this point is a huge accomplishment for him. He's having a hard time with her speed, though; every time she lurches forward, the sprite flies further than he expects it to and he curses under his breath. 

His eyes flicker up to the score. He's getting close to his old score, so carefully controlled for him to die at the perfect moment. This time, though, instead of edging towards a punchline, he's got someone to beat for the first time in, well, forever. Animated fire licks across the screen as he activates Red's special attack, enemy sprites dropping like flies. He looks back to the score. He's made it to the 698,000s, already passing his previous record. A few more deliberate button punches push him into the 699s, and Lance lets out a breath. 

A jaunty beat flows through the ceiling speakers, and Lance finds himself bobbing in place to a rhythm he knows well, the first lyrics sitting on the edge of his lips as the synth of the intro fades out.

_"Talking away,"_ he sings, barely audible to himself over the symphony of laser blasts and lion roars.  _"I don't know what I'm to say, I'll say it anyway~"_

The simple monotony that comes with singing calms him down, turning the boil of panic in his chest to a low simmer as he relaxes back into his game. He imagines that Coran, bless him, let him begin on a slow day to allow him time to reinstate his former glory and he doesn't plan on letting him down. When the song's chorus hits, Pidge's voice bellows through the speakers, replacing the singer's. 

_"TAAAAAAAAAAKE OOOOOOOOOOON MEEEEEEEEEEEE~"_ she croons, the backing beat carrying to the rest of the rink through her open window. Hunk dutifully provides his backup vocals into the cheese ladle he's wiping clean, and Coran joins in as he runs a dust mop across the rink's shiny (albeit scuffed) surface. Lance chuckles to himself -- he can't imagine a better soundtrack to being home. 

"C'mon, Lance, we're counting on you to do the high note!" Coran calls, and Pidge cheers into the microphone.

"I've been trying to fill your shoes, buddy, but I just can't do it!" Hunk admits, dancing into Lance's peripherals. Well, when he's asked so nicely...

_"_ Alright, alright, if you insis _-_ shit, Ro-Beast!" The Red Lion's special attack recharges just in time for him to slam his palm onto the button, successfully knocking the enemy sprite back far enough for him to get a few good hits in. 

"Haha, nice!" Hunk cheers, watching from over his shoulder. His eyes hit the score and he whistles. "Wow, you really are hell-bent on beating Red, huh?" Lance nods, short and curt.

"I'm beating this poser and I'm beating him today, Hunkaboo." Hunk hums in understanding. 

"You're pretty close, man, just a few more hits and you should be there." He's right; Lance lands an attack that boosts him into the 700-thousands. He can feel his confidence building -- Red (the asshole, not the Lion) only got a tiny bit further than that. Synth and singing builds as blood pumps in Lance's ears. He's made more progress than he ever has before, and another thousand and some points can only be smooth sailing at this point.

The point counter ticks up and up. 700,239. 700,496. 700,645. Lance begins to sing again.

_"I'lllllllllll beeeeeeeeeee gooooooooone~"_ he sings, growing louder than before to be heard over Pidge's cry of "CRANK THAT SHIT!" A quick flick of the joystick guides the Red Lion out of the path of a tractor beam and right into position to take a shot at the battleship controlling it. It's not the most guaranteed shot, but it's just enough to beat Red. His special attack is nearly charged; one direct hit should be enough to take out the ship.

_"In a day or-"_

Lance fires. Pixelated flames fill the screen, and when they dissipate, the battleship is gone, and his point counter floods with numbers.

701,600. 

He lets his cue to sing the high note pass in favor of cheering loudly, nearly punching poor Hunk in the face as he pumps his fists into the air. The commotion attracts Coran over to their little corner of the arcade, and under the music they can faintly hear Pidge clunk down the sound booth's stairs to join them. Hunk claps a hand to Lance's shoulder and shakes him excitedly.

"You did it! And in one day, too!" Coran laughs and claps, not entirely sure what all the fuss is about but unwaveringly supportive regardless. Pidge seems impressed as she joins the group, watching as Lance flies the Red Lion through a stretch of empty space and collects a power-up. 

"So what now? Are you gonna see if you can make it all the way to Black today?" Lance considers it, his ego inflated by his victory over the mystery usurper. 

"Y'know what? I think I might! Why stop now when I'm already on such a roll?" He thinks of Red's score and scoffs. The amateur must have gotten caught up at the battleship or not timed their attack right to end their game with such an odd number of points. After all, the only thing he's encountered after that battle is empty space-

Oh.

Oh no. 

Empty space in a video game is never good. And something had to have stopped Red for their score to end so abruptly. 

Something is coming for Lance's ass, he can feel it. 

As if on cue, the level's energetic background music gives way to an imposing theme heavy with low notes and minor keys. Lance can feel his friends' eyes on him as they all await what comes next. From the top of the screen, a pixelated figure bulky with armor descends to float in front of the Red Lion. It raises its arms and vibrant lashes of purple lightning dance shoot from their palms, dancing across the screen in haphazard patterns. Before Lance can even think to dodge, the cabinet shakes with the force of the bolts crashing against the Red Lion's hull. Her full HP bar is drained in seconds, and the screen goes black as she falls offscreen, a tinny evil laugh accompanying the animation. 

Hunk is the first to speak. 

"Well, I guess now you know what held up Red." Lance doesn't have an answer for him, still in shock from the sudden defeat. 

The bell above the door chimes, and the entryway fills with excited chatter as a group of customers enter. A modest herd of elementary schoolers follow behind them, letting out excited squeals as the the lights dance across the walls.

"Ah, look alive, crew! Looks like we've got a field trip on our hands!" Coran announces and springs into action, crossing the hall and reclaiming his place in the ticket booth in seconds. Pidge gives Lance what he thinks is supposed to be a pat on the back (it feels more like a punch, but whatever) and climbs back into the audio booth. The 80s music is quickly replaced with something more modern, and Lance can hear a few of the visiting kids begin to sing along. Hunk gently nudges his shoulder. 

"C'mon, man, now you've just got another new record to beat, same as you always have." He tilts his head towards the rest of the rink. "Why don't you head on over to the rental counter, I'm sure Coran would appreciate the help." Lance grins -- Hunk always has a way of bringing him back around. 

"Sounds good," he agrees, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes. "I could use a break from playing. Y'know, to do actual work?" Hunk snickers, and Lance looks down at his shirt. "You don't think I'll get written up for being out of uniform, do you?"

"Nah," Hunk says, waving dismissively. "Allura's not here, it should be fine. If it's really bothering you, there's probably a couple of spare shirts in the utility closet, but I don't know how fresh they are." Lance wrinkles his nose.

"On second thought, I think I'm good." His best friend beams as the  _Voltron_  leaderboard screen comes up again, the names flying onto the screen just as before. Both boys pause to watch the naming of the winners, breaking into cheers when golden leaves wrap around Lance's handle and he's scooted up the list into first place. A tidal wave of satisfaction sweeps through Lance's chest, and with it comes an idea just cocky enough to be worth putting into action. One day at home and he's back to being the reigning champ of the arcade. That's gotta warrant some bragging rights, right? 

"Hey man," he says to Hunk, fishing around in his pockets for a pen he could've sworn was there. "Got any sticky notes?" Hunk scoffs.

"'Do I have sticky notes?' he asks, like I'm some kind of walking office supply." A pause. "What color?" He chooses to ignore the shit-eating grin spreading across Lance's face. 

"We both know you know the answer." Hunk nods and ducks out of the arcade, returning a moment later with a pad of baby blue sticky notes and a pen tucked behind his ear. 

"Now, before I hand these over," he begins, "what exactly are you planning to do?" Lance makes grabby hands at the pad of paper and Hunk hands them over slowly, as if he were letting a very small child use grown-up scissors for the first time. 

"Nothing bad, I promise! I just thought I'd issue a little challenge to this 'Red' and see if they've got the guts to rise to the occasion." Hunk groans.

"Dude, you  _just_ beat this person fair and square, you don't have to make this harder on yourself. Remember the time you 'challenged' that freshman to a race around the pool but made yourself swim butterfly the whole time?" Lance doesn't appreciate the air quotes Hunk puts around the word "challenged" and frowns. 

"Hey, I won that race! I had the best fly stroke on the swim team!" 

"Yeah, but as soon as the kid turned his back you threw up in the bushes." Lance grimaces at the memory. He'd forgotten about that part.

"Whatever, this isn't like that! I'm just saying that it's better for my image to recognize challengers outright instead of letting some unsavory character slink around plotting my demise." 

"Dude, you know you're not actually a king, right?"

"What was that?" 

"Nothing, Your Highness." Lance snickers and taps the end of the pen against his bottom lip as he thinks. A thousand things he could say (and in some cases, has, to different rivals over the years) run through his head, but the distant squeal of a child pushes him to write the most clever sounding thought he can grab onto. 

_RED,_

_Your move._

_\- BLU_

He waves the note in front of Hunk's face and he snorts.

"Okay, that works. Go ahead and post your challenge, Simon Spier." Lance rolls his eyes.

"First of all, Simon wasn't Blue, he was Jacques, that was kind of a major plot point. And second of all, I can't believe you got that wrong after the amount of times you dragged me to see that movie." 

"You volunteered to go! Every single time! You even suggested that we see it a third time!" Lance waves him off.

" _Details._ Now come on, there won't be any slushie to scrub out of the carpet if you're not there to serve it." 

Lance punctuates his statement with a slight shove to Hunk's back, edging him towards the snack bar. As he leaves, he gives the game cabinet a quick once over.  _Just putting it right on the screen seems a little obvious...._ Putting it anywhere on the front seems a little rude, actually, and he doesn't want to risk just anyone noticing and peeling the little note off for kicks. Leaning to one side, he scans the mural on the side of the game, each Lion's robotic mouth open in a silent roar of triumph.

His eyes fall to the Red Lion and he smiles; the note fits perfectly within her open jaws. 

A few presses with the pad of his thumb secure the square of paper right where he needs it, and he's sure that it's just obvious enough for anyone dedicated enough to visit the old game to see. Lance then saunters out of the arcade, a cheerful pep in his step as salutes to Pidge and takes his place behind the skate rental counter. The harried adults of the group of customers are shouting to be heard over the music as they desperately try to scribble down each child's shoe size, but Lance takes the chaos in stride and begins lining up the children's sized skates as the numbers are called out. 

The last pair on the rack has two simple blue stars on each side. He smiles fondly as he pulls them down, warmth flowing through him as he looks from the once too-big skates to his current shoes and marvels at the difference in size. 

He glances back to the kids, and while most of them have already grabbed their skates and are giggling as Coran helps them with their laces, a single boy hangs back from the crowd. He has to jump to see over the counter, and Lance gets a glimpse of round brown eyes and dark hair shaggy from the effort of jumping. Lance runs a thumb over the blue stars once more before making his way over to the counter, leaning over to look the child in the eye. 

"These might be a little bit big for you, bud," he admits to the child, who bristles at being addressed. He grins and winks in hopes of relaxing the poor boy. "They're very special skates, you know. They can't be worn by just anyone."

The child tilts his head, intrigued. Lance leans down further and beckons him forward, dropping his voice to a whisper as he says, "Now, I'm not supposed to tell you this, but legend has it that these skates are enchanted. Do you know what that means?" The boy shakes his head, and Lance just catches a soft "no" come from under his breath. Lance laughs and gently drops the skates near the boy's feet. 

"Well, put them on, and you'll find out. I promise." He'll have to get Pidge to turn on the blacklight to make good on his promise (a gamble in and of itself, since the wiring doesn't always cooperate), but he always considers the way the rink's younger patrons dance around in the odd light well worth the hassle of replacing the ancient purple bulbs. 

One of the adults returns to the child's side, noticing the skates and prompting the little boy with a motherly "What do we say?"

The child smiles and Lance feels bubbly. "Thank you!" 

He runs off quickly, already pulling off his shoes and tugging on Coran's pant leg for help. A few minutes later, he's holding a classmate's hand as they begin a slow loop around the rink. 

Pidge's voice comes through the speakers then, bright and energetic: "Alright, guys, who's ready to party?! Just a few more weeks left until summer!"

The children cheer and Hunk lets out a whoop as he hands off a plate of soft pretzels to one of the adults, who laughs as the beginning of a cheerful pop song leaves the room thrumming with bass. Lance sways his hips to the music, propping his chin up on his elbows as he leans against the counter and watches blue stars dance and reflect in the slick hardwood. 

From where he's standing, summer's already looking pretty good.  

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, this might be the longest first chapter I've ever written. I haven't been very active here lately, but I'm hoping to change that when my own summer vacay rolls around! 
> 
> In the meantime, I hope you've enjoyed what I've got here so far, and I can't wait to continue this story! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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